


Quartermaster's guide to 007 flu care

by Beginte



Series: Work and Play [6]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, James Bond is a certified drama queen, M/M, Q is done with Bond's shit but loves him very much anyway, Q is very caring, Sickfic, Some feels, attempts at abusing the privileges of being sick, attempts at soliciting sponge baths while being well enough to bathe self, flirting while sick, obligatory sick fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-24 00:12:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6134815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beginte/pseuds/Beginte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Bond is down with flu and Q takes care of him. Fluff and mild shenanigans ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Finally an obligatory sick fic because I love me some sick fic :D
> 
> For my Fahrenheit-dwelling friends, 38.1 Celsius is about 100 Fahrenheit.

* * *

Bond doesn’t care if Q wants to see Svalbard one day, that’s technically Norwegian territory, and Bond’s never going back to Norway if he can help it. Especially not in October.

It’s been raining continually throughout Bond’s entire mission, and while he does come from a dreary island veiled in perpetual fog and rain, the fact that it gets dark at 3pm here does add a considerable amount of irritation.

After five days he finally concludes his assignment by killing the mark, though not before having to engage in a rather lengthy hand-to-hand combat out in the rain and mud of the man’s hiding place. It’s the dead of night and he’s drenched, out in the middle of nowhere, and the rain continues to patter and drum on his head, on his shoulders, dribbling down his face.

The earwig still works (despite a brief dunk in a cold, muddy pond mid-battle - Q knows him better than to equip him with anything not waterproof), so he contacts Q-Branch to report. He only gets R on the line, as Q apparently has been busy for the last two hours now, trying to save 005 from getting herself killed in the depths of Cambodia. Feeling the mud squelch in his shoes and cold rain soak his jacket into a wet, heavy load plastered over his back, Bond thinks the Cambodian jungle and local conflicts sound quite appealing right now.

R takes his brief report and tells him he has a flight first thing tomorrow, since apparently there aren’t currently any Oslo-London flights in the middle of the night. He can vaguely make out Mallory hollering something in the background, and then R is gone, and a gust of wind blows the rain into his face.

Not being able to reach Q only serves to worsen his mood as he drives the mark’s commandeered car back to the tourist cottage he’s staying at. One of the windscreen wipers is malfunctioning, squeaking in a nerve-grinding rhythm as he drives faster than is safe in this weather and level of darkness. There aren’t any lights on in the cottages, because it’s past tourist season and what few people are there are now asleep, so he misses his exit and makes an illegal U-turn ten miles later to go back.

He doesn’t bother turning the lights on as he enters the cottage, because he feels like stewing a little bit in the dark. There’s a stinging in his throat which he attributes to swallowing quite a bit of cold pond water at one point during his tousle with the mark, and he slinks directly to the bathroom to peel himself out of the wet clothes and take a hot shower. The shoes are beyond salvaging, and he contemplates never again wearing shoes he likes on a mission.

The shower does warm him up, but the stinging in his throat doesn’t go away, and he can feel exhaustion settling deep into his bones as the adrenaline wears off. Once out of the shower and towelled dry, he wraps himself in the bathrobe and goes to search his pitifully packed bag for something he can more or less comfortably sleep in.

He sits on the edge of the bed, fiddling with his phone for a while, his bare feet getting cold. Not caring that he’s being transparently pathetic, he tries Q-Branch again, but once more only gets R who rather distractedly informs him that 005 is about to be blown up, and then there’s a commotion in the background and R quickly rings off.

Bond has barely spoken two words to Q in the last five days, all due to a charming mix of shitty signal out in the downright sub-polar wilderness, his chase after the mark, and Q’s own always busy schedule and 005′s much more high-risk mission being run simultaneously. It’s deeply unprofessional, but Bond misses Q more and more each day, and when has Bond ever been professional, really.

The cottage feels cold and the effects of the shower are beginning to wear off, so he drags an itchy blanket out of a cupboard and throws it over the duvet.

Tired, he crawls into bed. He’s beaten up, lovesick, and missing Q miserably. There’s a twinge of pain in his shoulder joint, and if this is rheumatism creeping up on him then he might as well just shoot himself. His teeth are aching with weariness and his throat still feels scratchy. The cold sleet rattles sharply and unrelentingly against the thin windows.

He pulls the covers up to his ears and tries to fall asleep as fast as he can, so it can already be tomorrow and he can be on his way home. To Q.

* * *

Q takes a contemplative sip of his tea, eyeing the small window showcasing the progress of an Oslo-London flight in real time. James is due on home soil at 2:55 pm, which is in forty-three minutes. An equally small window pulled up just beneath the flight data showcases the weather conditions, but for now it seems they won’t be making any impact on the flight. Both windows are tucked into an upper corner of one of the multiple screens panelling Q-Branch; discreet and almost unnoticeable among the ever-fluctuating hurricane of data. But Q knows they’re there, and he takes a few seconds to look at them every now and then, whenever he can snatch a soothing sip of tea before getting back to work.

He’s missed James a little more than usual (which already is rather plenty). It’s because they hardly had any opportunities to exchange more than two or three mission-vital sentences in the past five days. Q’s been hectically busy, and it seems like 005 is not quite done almost getting herself killed in Cambodia, all of which means he’s been unable to talk to James for more than a few, mission-crucial minutes. R is a good person, though, and she gave Q updates whenever James would get in touch with her, unable to reach Q.

Due to all of this, he’s even more excited than he normally is to have James back home soon. He’s missed him quite terribly and is very much planning to have a lengthy, workplace-inappropriate snog as soon as James struts into Q-Branch. And then home as early as possible for a dinner of take-away, evening together, and reunion sex either later at night or in the morning. It will probably be the morning, since Q doesn’t realistically see himself leaving the office before eight pm if 005 keeps this up.

He spends most of the flight’s remaining forty-three minutes once again navigating 005 through an enemy building complex and stealthily locking and unlocking doors for her, for once managing to keep her undetected. The flight’s status changes to ‘arrived on time’ when Q is busy poking around in some rather sloppily written code meant to safeguard a database he’s supposed to sift through for a different mission. He’s scowling frequently and taking large gulps of his tea to offset the unpleasant feeling of trudging through mud evoked by that particular code, when he hears a quiet ping and the flight status changes. He smiles a little, privately, a warm spark in his chest before he gets back to work.

James should be arriving soon, provided the traffic behaves itself. Sadly, Q is too busy wading through bad code to orchestrate a smooth traffic for James’ cab. Shame, because guiding, synchronising and timing the traffic makes him feel like a sublime conductor managing an extravagantly complex and fragilely balanced orchestra.

(Mallory certainly doesn’t appreciate his habit of stacking traffic jams for the budgeting and finance people whenever they visit MI6. The disapproval is a perk, really.)

Another thirty-eight minutes later James finally enters the room. The door slides open and he stalks in, a little ruffled and perhaps tired, but all powerful grace and entirely too smug to undoubtedly yet again be brining incinerated and/or shattered pieces of equipment back, and Q cannot stop the smile on his face. He’s missed the infuriating bastard so terribly.

James prowls over to him, and Q’s smile broadens when he stops just before him, stance official and every inch perfectly befitting a high-class agent reporting in. (Someone unfamiliar with James might even believe him a professional.)

“007,” Q says smoothly, in a soft voice, before reaching out to tug James forward by the tie.

James’ eyes glint with just the briefest flash of pleased surprise before he more than eagerly follows the tug and meets Q in that snog he’s wanted for a long while now. And oh, yes, this is lovely, Q thinks, sucking on James’ lower lip before nipping gently, a prelude to deepening the kiss as he runs a hand through short blond hair. He’s here, warm and solid against Q, his arms sneaking around Q’s waist as he readily opens his mouth to let Q in, hands playfully travelling a bit lower.

When they finally part, they’re both a touch breathless, and James’ eyes are shining oh so brightly, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth.

“Q,” he says steadily and deadpan, voice perhaps a little bit raspy, and Q smiles at him.

“Good to have you home,” the words are warm enough to be an intimate confession. Then, he clears his throat and assumes a haughtily professional demeanour. “Now, then, let’s see what you’ve brought back. Do I dare get my hopes up?” he adds sourly, adjusting his glasses while James produces the equipment case.

“I did bring back the gun,” it’s very vague and slightly defensive, hinting at possible horrors regarding the gun’s actual state. Or shape.

“No local fauna in need of feeding, then?” Q jabs, carrying the case over to his desk where he opens it to reveal that the gun is indeed there, however far from pristine condition.

Q’s eyebrows travel up as he takes out the weapon and inspects the liberal coating of mud, by now dried out. Some of the mud also seems to be squeezed into the barrel, which is quite impressive in the least welcome of ways.

“What on earth did you do with it?” he asks, scratching a nail over the dirt.

“You try fighting a Viking assassin in a field at night in pouring rain,” James replies, and Q tsks.

“You know, for a 00 agent you’re depressingly easy to divest of guns.”

“For the last time, that was a komodo dragon suddenly crawling out. You’d have had your attention on it, too,” James growls, and it sounds a little deeper and hoarser than usual. His lips appear chapped, too, now that Q takes a closer look.

“Well, at least you’ve brought it back this time,” he concedes, tucking the gun carefully back in its place, patting it as he mentally promises it a good clean later. “That’s progress.”

“I do aim to please,” James smiles salaciously, and Q gives a put-upon sigh. James clears his throat as if trying to swallow back the rasp Q’s heard in his voice. “When are you off?”

“Oh, quite a bit more,” Q is loath to disappoint the hopefulness in James’ eyes. “I’ve got to run a few intel scans and see 005 through the last stretch of her mission. But you go on and go home if you want,” he adds. “I’ve got your keys here somewhere...”

There’s a warm, fluttering feeling in his heart whenever he tells James to ‘go home’ or that he’s left something ‘at home’ or that he’ll ‘be home’ in a bit. It’s a soft, very good feeling, giddy but shyly tucked away and cherished. That _his_ flat became _their_ flat, their _home_. And sometimes, when he says it, he can see the warmth in James’ eyes or the faintest hint of a smile on his lips, and he knows James likes it, too.

Now, James shakes his head.

“No, I’ll wait. I’ll just kip on your sofa for a bit.”

An incoming connection pings into Q’s ear, and he waves a hand.

“Have at it,” he assures before taking the call. Out the corner of his eye, he can see James clambering onto the fairly small sofa and settling down, eyes slipping closed almost immediately, accompanied by a heavy sigh. “002, what seems to be the matter?”

* * *

Time ticks by, lumping into hours. 002′s emergency is by no means difficult to manage, and half an hour of steady instructions later Q disconnects, leaving him alive and well and carrying on with his mission.

He tackles a mildly complex firewall, after which he spends time scouring the enemy network, cloning files, chasing leads and compiling a portfolio of evidence. He makes a brief detour into guiding 005 through a building filled with enemy guards, but it all goes well (at last), and he returns to his fishing. After that, he sorts through digitised blueprints and forces himself to deal with paperwork (labelled ‘ _beyond urgent, for the love of god’_ by Moneypenny), before turning to some more coding.

James sleeps through the whole thing. He’s napped in Q-Branch while Q worked a few times in the past already, and Q considers it rather touching; a sign of deep, downright instinctive trust that James can sleep uninterrupted while Q paces, tinkers and talks mere feet away from him. James has familiarised himself with Q’s presence to the point where he can trustingly sleep through some noises he makes, while usually it takes but a few footsteps from anyone else to jerk him awake, especially when not sleeping at home.

And for all that he may complain about James terrorising his minions on occasions, getting underfoot and stealing things, Q likes having him here, in Q-Branch. His presence is a lively, cheeky spark, and when he naps on Q’s sofa, like he does now, Q is rather filled with a lovely sensation.

On the sofa, James coughs a little, stirring Q out of a slightly tricky line of code. Now that he’s a touch more reconnected with the physical reality around him, Q thinks he’s heard James cough a few times already, and when he glances at the clock on one of the screens, he startles with the realisation that it’s 7:14 pm. And James has been sleeping this whole time.

James gives another small cough, and then another, and then one more. He’s not woken himself up yet, but he’s about to, his eyebrows furrowing in irritation as his slumber runs thin. Q abandons his coding and makes his way over to him, crouching by the sofa and running one hand through James’ hair while brushing the other over his forehead.

A fever. _Shit_.

Cursing himself inwardly for neglecting James for so long and failing to pay attention to this development, he gently rubs a hand up and down James’ arm. He can feel the unhealthy warmth radiating through the expensive fabric of his shirt.

“James?” he murmurs softly. “James.”

“Hmmmm...”

“James.”

Another cough. Eyes crack open, glazed and a touch reddened, which lends them a slightly different shade of blue.

“You’re burning up,” Q whispers, gently running his knuckles over James’ cheek. “You have a fever. We have got to get you to Medical, and then home.”

James coughs again and sits up, hair sticking out at all angles, body stiff and visibly uncomfortable in his clothes. His eyes are shiny, alight with fever, and the warm flush on his cheeks is more than just a sleep blush. Q gently runs a hand through his hair again.

“Come on, love. Let’s get you checked out and then home.”

Q rarely uses terms of endearment, and when he does, he calls him ‘love’ - it’s the same word James has for him, and it feels just right. Part playful and part true, because this is what they are to each other, at the bottom of things: love.

So Q switches off his computers, fires off a quick message to R and to the highest ranking minion currently taking on the night shift, and takes his feverish, sleepy, achy love to Medical.

It’s a testament to just how shite James is feeling that he allows himself to be brought into Medical without putting up any resistance, which makes Q feel like he should really be getting worried now. A brief check-up (which includes James scowling and being disgruntled about being poked under his jaw and having his throat examined) confirms that it’s indeed a case of flu. James sulkily and wearily puts his shirt back on while Q listens to the doctor rattle off instructions. She tosses a few boxes and bottles into a bag, illegibly writes down a few more pointers and suggestions, and assures Q that an appropriate form will be sent out to Mallory to notify him of 007′s sick leave.

Q thanks her and ushers James out, determined to get him home and into bed.

* * *

Bond achingly follows Q out of Medical and into an office where Q helps himself to a set of car keys and swipes his access card to log in that he’s taking one of Six’s cars. Normally, when they go home together, Q makes them take the Tube, which Bond bears with as much grace as he can muster. Considering the fact that all Bond wants right now is to crawl under the duvet and die, he’s deeply grateful for not having to endure a Tube nightmare.

Q tells him to put on a coat before they go out into the garage. When Bond nasally reveals he’s arrived here without one, Q vindictively makes him put on his own horrid anorak, and Bond feels his condition severely worsening just due to being swaddled in that shapeless mass of a thing.

When they get in the car, he’s too weak to shrug out of it, so he sulks in silence while Q drops his messenger bag and the supply of medication into the backseat before sliding into the driver’s seat and telling Bond to fasten his seatbelt. Bond’s spine aches.

It might be the fever (the doctor did say 38.1), but Bond finds it rather... attractive to watch Q drive. He’s never seen him do it (never been absolutely certain he _can_ do it, despite Q scowling and dryly assuring him he is indeed in possession of a driver’s licence made out to one of his MI6 aliases), but now, in the streetlamp-lit darkness of the night, he thinks Q looks quite sexy, driving with practiced ease, as commandingly competent as he is at anything else he does, eyes serious as he focuses on the road.

Bond might have dozed off for a moment, because he doesn’t think the drive to their flat usually lasts just five minutes (it’s been _their_ flat for almost a year now, and it makes Bond warm inside), but for all that Q’s anorak is indescribably ugly, it smells soothingly like him and it might have sent Bond off for a bit.

“James.”

“Hmmh...” Bond breathes, rustling under the garment as he peels his eyes open.

“James, we’re home. Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

There’s a line somewhere in Bond’s head about this not being quite the way he wanted to be bedded tonight, but it’s a bit jumbled and he’s really tired.

The cold air bites unpleasantly against Bond’s face as he clambers out of the car, and every single physical sensation is wrong and unwelcome. They take the lift to the third floor, and when Q unlocks the door and Bond steps in, he’s unexpectedly flooded with a deep-running, almost overwhelming sense of relief and comfort. He’s _home_ , and this sensation washes over him clearer and more perfectly than ever before. He’s _home_ , in a place where he feels safe and, most of all, where he always looks forward to coming from a mission. Everything here is familiar and welcoming and good, and he breathes so much easier as he takes off Q’s terrible jacket and heads for the bathroom.

Taking a brief shower is unpleasant, his skin prickly with fever, the water too hot and too cold at the same time, but he gets through it as quickly as he can, because he wants to wash the airport off of himself and curl up in bed and at least die being a little bit cleaner. When he steps out, the air in the bathroom suddenly feels piercingly cold, and rubbing the fabric of the towel over his feverish skin is even more unpleasant than the shower. He shrugs on his dressing gown, because he’s forgotten to bring any pyjamas into the bathroom, and heads for the bedroom.

The bed gives in wonderfully when he sinks into it, and it feels and smells quite perfect. A hint of detergent (Q’s preferred, softly fresh brand), Q’s own scent, and also something more, a welcome, homely sensation that is more than just fragrance. Maybe it’s Bond’s own scent in the sheets, mixed in with Q’s, that makes him feel this way.

When Q comes into the bedroom, he makes him put on pyjamas. Bond growls weakly against it, because his skin feels peeled raw, but Q is unrelenting and rewards him with a kiss. Bond is sick and therefore too selfish to protest against potentially giving the flu to Q. It looks like Q’s about to sleep in the same bed with him anyway.

“I’ll go get your medicine. Think you can manage a bit of tea?” Q asks, gently running a hand through Bond’s hair, and somehow the sensation isn’t unpleasant in the slightest.

“Yes,” he’s not sure, but he’ll be damned if he admits it.

Q smiles at him and leaves, and a moment later Bond can hear the kettle start its steadily hum. Bond’s eyelids feel heavy, so he lets them droop closed as he rests his head on the pillow. He can hear Q bustling about in the kitchen, rattling and snapping the medicine packages, and the noises are welcome, distracting him a little from how utterly shite he’s feeling.

And then Q is back, passing him a ridiculously large number of pills and a glass of water. He swallows the pills while Q places the mug of tea on the nightstand by Bond’s side of the bed. Bond makes a grunt of thanks.

Q slips into bed beside him, sitting with his back against the headboard, a laptop and a book nearby because it’s much too early for him to actually sleep. He smiles at Bond, rearranges the pillows a little and carefully tucks the duvet around him, and then he gently strokes Bond’s hair and this... this is... well... it’s wonderful.

Bond hasn’t been given this, hasn’t been so simply and lovingly _cared for_ in a very, very long time. Not since he was a child, a small boy who was loved and looked after. And it’s been so long ago that even now he barely recognises a glimmer of this feeling - he’s gotten so used to ignoring cuts and bruises and stitching up his own wounds, or to waking up to the starch, clinical smell of Medical and its sterile whiteness and mind-grating boredom. And on the rare occasions when catching a cold, he would hide away, swallow vitamin C and paracetamol-based painkillers and curl up in bed and wait for it to either pass or kill him, alone and hating everything.

And now Q is here, taking care of him, being so thoughtful and gentle, and Bond suddenly feels safe and at ease, as though some enormous weight has been lifted off his chest.

He shuffles a little closer to Q and lays his head in his lap, and he heaves a sigh, deep and filled with contentment. This is good. It almost makes him fall apart, and he knows Q will be here to hold him if he does.

He falls asleep within minutes.

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is! I'm very sorry it took so long, real life sucks tremendously, and this month sucked in particular.
> 
> A big shout-out to the wonderful [Castillon02](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Castillon02/pseuds/Castillon02) and [dhampir72](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dhampir72) for being very wonderful and cheering me on with this chapter. Thank you, very wonderful friends!

* * *

The night passes well enough, save for an incident of James hacking up his lungs at around 2 am. Q gets him the special syrup which is supposed to work fast, and indeed the coughing subsides completely within fifteen minutes. James then complains he’s too cold, so Q pulls him close and wraps him in an embrace, James burning like a furnace as he shivers. This, too, passes soon enough, and James falls back asleep so suddenly that for a moment Q checks if he hadn’t fainted. The prompt snoring reassures him a bit.

When Q next wakes up, it’s because James is coughing again. They’re little, individual coughs, however, and subside as James sniffles a little in his sleep.

Groggy, Q sits up in bed, half-blindly palming over his nightstand for his glasses, and then he squints at the alarm clock, urging his half-asleep brain to process the digits. Half past eight in the morning. With a grunt, he shifts to sit properly, and runs a hand through his hair in an effort to comb out the fog of slumber still settled heavily around him.

James looks predictably worse - his flu had developed further overnight, and he’s bearing the signs of it. He’s breathing through his mouth already, nose clearly congested, hair dampened with sweat from his fever. His lips are chapped and dry, slightly reddened, and there’s a quiet, damp rasp to his breathing that makes Q’s own throat sting in compassion.

Gently, Q brushes a hand over James’ forehead, not at all surprised to find he’s burning up. With a sigh, he gets out of bed, careful and guarded so as not to wake James up - let him sleep for as long as possible, because once he wakes up, he’ll be utterly miserable.

Q pops by the bathroom and then goes into the kitchen. He puts the kettle on and as it starts, he assembles a morning round of James’ flu medicine - an assortment of vitamins and paracetamol, with a bottle of cough syrup thrown in for good measure. The water boils, and he pours it into two mugs, one with his usual morning Earl Grey and the other with a special, rarely used raspberry-flavoured tea, his personal go-to in times of cold and flu crisis.

To be perfectly honest, he’s never been the best at taking care of himself when sick, so he feels ill-equipped to look after James. Nonetheless, he’s determined to do his best, and so he unearths a tray and carries the mugs, pills and a few biscuits back into the bedroom.

James is still sleeping, though it’s fitful now as he sniffles more and coughs once or twice. When Q deposits the tray on a nightstand and slides into bed, James grunts and stirs awake as the mattress dips despite Q’s best efforts.

“...Q?” James’ voice is a hellish, wet rasp, and he clears his throat and promptly dissolves into a coughing fit.

Q helps him sit up which aids his breathing a bit, and the coughs subside, leaving James looking wrecked and aching.

“Fuck...” he mumbles. James doesn’t swear very often, and Q hums in sympathy, brushing damp blonde strands away from hot - too hot - forehead.

“How are you feeling?” the question might be phrased a bit inanely, but he needs to know some details.

“Like death warmed over,” James tries to smirk crookedly but ends up with a grimace. His voice is hoarse, as if strapped raw, and he huffs a half-cough.

“Take your pills,” Q passes him the medicine and a glass of water. “And then take your temperature, you’ve got a fever.”

“Fantastic,” James knocks back the pills and drinks the entire glass of water, sliding back down into the sheets and covers with a shiver once he’s done.

He grumbles when Q sticks the thermometer in his armpit, and after ten seconds the device beeps and displays a 38.3. Q frowns, even though he knows he shouldn’t have expected anything better after at this stage.

“Well?” James prompts, face half-buried in the pillow, eyes bleary and mostly closed.

“38.3,” Q tucks the thermometer back into its casing and places it on the nightstand. “Have you got a headache?” he again gently brushes his fingers through James’ hair, blue eyes drooping closed for a long moment in response.

“...no. Don’t think so.”

“That’s good. Do you want some biscuits? Or toast, maybe?”

“...no.”

“It will keep your strength up, and you should eat before your throat completely refuses to cooperate on account of pain,” Q reminds him, and James groans long into the pillow. Then, he glances up at Q, blue eyes somehow hesitantly beseeching, grabbing a hold of Q’s heart.

“Will you... will you make me marmalade sandwiches?” he asks, again a touch of some strange hesitation, like he’s exploring an unknown new terrain on uncertain legs. A warm flutter brings a smile to Q’s face.

“Of course,” he gets out of bed again, snatching one of the biscuits on his way and biting on it. “The yellow mug is yours,” he adds from the doorway. “Give it a few minutes and then try to drink it, it helps, I promise.”

Q makes three simple sandwiches with orange marmalade - it’s unlikely James will eat them all, but Q will be happy to finish whatever he can’t. Orange marmalade is definitely his favourite spreadable food, and now it feels quite warm and lovely to be making these sandwiches for James - they’re a kind of comfort food for Q, and he’s more than happy to share with James whatever comfort he can.

As expected, James manages only two of the sandwiches, chewing slowly and with an expression of impending doom on his face, so Q takes care of the third one while James sips at his raspberry tea.

“Thank you,” he murmurs with a rasp, and Q responds with a smile.

“Tell me if there’s anything else you’d like.”

“I’m fine for now,” James sniffles, and Q plops the box of tissues next to him, causing him to flash a crooked smile. “When are you going in?”

“I’m not going in at all today. You’ve had the good sense to fall ill on a Saturday, so I can stay and take care of you.”

“How very prudent of me,” James hums before loudly blowing his nose.

“Ever so much,” Q confirms dryly.

After that, James slumps miserably back into the pillows and declares he’ll wait for death to claim him, so Q leaves him to it and busies himself with setting himself up on the bed with his laptop, wrangling the cables and selecting a proper book to protect the vents with. Once done, he opens up his laptop, ready to wreak some digital havoc while enjoying his first cup of Earl Gray.

“You’ll catch it,” James croaks out as Q makes himself more comfortable in his nest and pushes a pillow up against the headboard.

“Due to apparent lack of sunlight exposure the Medical bastes me weekly with enough vitamins to keep a horse in good health. I’ll be fine,” he bends down to press a firm kiss into James’ hair, letting him know all further discussion is futile. “Also, I think I still have plenty of vaccinations and other medicine in my system from back when that minion accidentally released the weaponised bacteria 001 had brought back.”

James makes a malevolent grunt - clearly, he remembers the incident. He may not admit this, but Q knows he’d had a fright when he returned from a mission to be told Q and half his minions have been quarantined due to a biohazard incident. Q remembers James’ uneasy eyes and dreadfully stiff shoulders when they talked through the glass wall, the tension not relenting even as Q repeatedly assured him he was absolutely fine.

For the next two hours or so, things settle. Q busies himself with his laptop, and James shuffles a little closer, pressing his head gently against Q’s thigh and, much like last night when he laid his head on Q’s lap, he heaves a pleased sigh and rests this way. The feeling of James trustingly tucked close to him is somehow tender and overwhelmingly... _lovely_. He pets through James’ hair and gets back to work.

James dozes on and off for those two hours, fitfully; he stirs awake to coughing fits and to make two bathroom trips, returning wracked with chills and shivers. Eventually he wakes up for good, grunting his displeasure at being conscious and _feeling things_. Q takes his temperature and discovers the fever had budged to 38. Bored and allegedly dying, James dramatically requests some entertainment in his last hours on Earth.

Q sets him up with a laptop of his own (and a book underneath it, because James is a complete savage and tends to place his laptop directly on the bedding with no respect for the vents, and for all he tries Q cannot train it out of him), and James spends much of the day numbly consuming David Attenborough’s nature documentaries. It had been charming to discover that James likes them and even owns a DVD set of _Frozen Planet_. He also sometimes gets surprisingly invested in the life journey of various animals.

Q works on his own laptop, taking care of a few neglected pet projects and occasionally browsing the internet for silly videos or picking up a book. Beside him, James watches one episode after another, every now and then sucking on a Polo mint to relieve the ache in his throat. As the time passes, he grows more drowsy, at some point shifting to lie down on his side, the laptop placed on the mattress beside him, and continues to watch this way, eyes gradually drooping closed.

From where he’s sitting, Q can see the charming, endearingly blond eyelashes fluttering before finally settling on the cheekbones. James’ breathing evens out into a peaceful, slow rhythm, his face relaxing, and Q watches him for a bit, heart softening with warmth and overwhelming affection. Carefully, he reaches over James’ head and closes the laptop before picking it up and depositing it on the floor. Then he gently rearranges the duvet to cover James just so, just enough to keep the chill at bay but not enough to let him overheat, hoping to keep him slumbering and resting for a long as possible.

He smiles, looking for a few more minutes. James looks mangled, with his hair a mess and his forehead clammy, but he’s relaxed, trustingly asleep, and the fact that he’s sick and taking his rest so fully and unguardedly just melts Q’s heart, because it means James has a home, and this home is shared with Q. A place where he feels safe and lets his guard down completely, and what’s more he knows Q will look after him. Just like he does out in the field, but this feels much more intimate and somehow even more significant than guiding 007 through mazes of explosions and enemy fire.

Because this isn’t 007, this is James. James who is sick and vulnerable, and he trusts Q, latches onto him and soaks up the care he's given and... and he’s never had it before.

The realisation makes Q pause, his heart squeezing in equal measure compassion and love. James hasn’t had anyone taking care of him like this probably since childhood. All he’s had was Medical - with scowling doctors and exasperated nurses and painful fractures and paperwork - and rather crude, ill-employed self-care, stitching up his own cuts and licking his wounds out in the field in a brief moment of breath before once more facing fire and blood and battle. He’s never had the luxury of simply being sick and being looked after.

Neither has Q, for that matter, not really - but it’s not quite the same thing. And now he’s even more determined to take good care of James in his slightly over-dramatised time of flu.

James continues to sleep on and off for the rest of the day. He spends his waking hours mostly complaining about being bored and all his muscles aching. Q makes sure he takes his pills on time and monitors the fever which persists at 38. He spends most of the day in bed, occasionally getting up to stretch his legs or fetch himself a snack from the kitchen, but other than that he’s content to sit in bed, a sniffling James by his side.

For dinner, Q heats up leftovers from what James had cooked before the mission and has himself a very delicious meal. James uses the privileges of being sick and capriciously dines on marmalade sandwiches and raspberry tea again, refusing anything more sensible.

It’s fine, Q will force him to eat a proper meal eventually.

* * *

The second day starts very much in the same vein as the first had - after a sweaty night of intermittent chills and burning fits, James wakes up with a cough and a throat he claims feels as if he’d swallowed sandpaper.

Q takes James’ temperature and finds it had climbed overnight to a worrying 38.6. And really, it’s quite absurd to worry - James had been shot, creatively tortured by flamboyant villains with eyepatches, and declared dead on more than one occasion. This is just flu.

Still, for all that James stubbornly ignores major injuries out in the field and ploughs on in pursuit of the mission objective, at home he declares flu to be his downfall.

“Do you need anything?” Q asks after James takes his medicine.

“Yes. There’s a gun in my nightstand. Please shoot me and put me out of my misery.”

“Tea it is, then.”

James gets the shivers again and slinks down to lie on the bed, wrapping himself in blankets, sniffling and grunting and completely pathetic, and it ridiculously makes Q feel a bit gooey inside.

He rings Moneypenny and tells her he’ll be staying at home for the next two days, and could she please inform Mallory.

“ _Oh god, are you alright?”_ Moneypenny sounds disturbed and a little bit frightened, and well, it’s true Q’s never taken an additional day off beyond his usual Saturdays and sporadic holidays.

“I’m fine. James has got the plague though, so I’ll be staying home to make sure he doesn’t die.”

Beside him, James grumbles quietly.

“ _Oh, the poor dear_ ,” Moneypenny says with an utterly ruthless lack of any compassion in her voice.

“I’ll be working from home for two days - I’m logged on and I’m by the phone in case of any emergencies. But I’m not coming in for anything lesser than a supervillain threatening to cleave the Earth in half with a giant space laser.”

“ _Noted. I’ll be sure to tell M, using those exact words. You stay well and take care of your pet.”_

“I will, thank you,” he rings off and gets back into bed, laptop already turned on and balanced on the covers, and begins to descend into the rabbit hole of work.

Still somewhat connected to the reality around him, he vaguely registers James shuffling closer before playfully nudging his forehead against Q’s thigh, like a lion cub demanding attention.

“Thank you, Q,” he mumbles. His nose is still congested and voice raspy from coughing fits, but there’s something very warm and solemn in it, matched by the look in his eyes when Q turns to glance down at him.

He’s not quite sure what to say to this, because really - it seems so very natural to stay in and take care of his troublesome, beloved agent. And yet, Q’s never done that for anyone in his life. Never _had_ anyone in his life for whom he would feel the need to do it. And James is the one.

So he simply smiles and bends down to drop a kiss on James’ shoulder, since that’s the closest part of him within reach; his body is warm through the fabric of the t-shirt serving as his pyjama top.

“Of course,” Q says simply, and gets back to work.

Luckily, there don’t seem to be any emergencies, R handling the Q-Branch well (like Q, she’s a self-proclaimed firm but benevolent tyrant), and Q has the opportunity to take breaks. As the morning crawls towards noon, however, Q’s arse is beginning to oppose to the prospect of a second consecutive day spent sitting in bed.

When he takes James’ temperature the verdict is an even 38, and James grumbles things about being sick of this and preferring to either finally die or get well.

“The great 007, felled by a flu,” Q hums, packing up the thermometer.

“This is how it ends,” James dramatically slides back into the pillows. “Promise to remember me as I was, and not the way I am now.”

“For fuck’s sake, James,” Q isn’t sure whether he wants to groan or laugh.

James makes a nasal sound uncannily similar to a seal from one of his nature documentaries, and rolls over onto his stomach where he heaves a very long-suffering sigh. Just for his own peace of mind, Q rearranges the pillows to ensure James can’t suffocate himself, and goes back to his work while James slips into a doze.

He works for a few more minutes, but soon enough his rear is complaining quite unbearably, and he gets up, stretching with pure pleasure.

James twitches, cracking his eyes open when Q picks up the laptop and fumbles with the power cord.

“Got to get up for a bit,” Q explains. “My arse’s gone numb.”

Blue eyes glaze fondly.

“Go sit in a proper chair, Q.”

“No cringe-worthy innuendos or pathetic pick-up lines? You really must be dying.”

James chuckles weakly, eyes drooping closed.

“Cheers, love,” he snarks.

Q smiles and moves to brush a loving kiss against his hot, clammy forehead. James sighs, soft and open and vulnerably happy, and Q’s heart aches and swells with immense affection.

He makes sure there’s a bottle of water by the bed, and deposits James’ laptop within easy reach, should he get bored, pointedly sliding a book under it, causing James’ lips to quirk in a smile. Q briefly contemplates leaving him a bell to ring when he needs something, but at the last moment his self-preservation instinct kicks in and he abandons the idea.

He moves to the living room (for now abandoning the spare room serving as an at-home lab) and sits at the table with a sigh of pure bliss, his tailbone very nearly vibrating with happiness. He dives into his work, taking turns between coding and working on a prototype that’s been neglected for days. At some point, James shuffles into the room, all ruffled and sniffling and in his dressing gown, to pick up a book and drop a kiss on Q’s head, declining offers to be made something to drink or eat, and then slinks back into the bedroom.

After a few hours of work (including one Skype conference and three phone calls), Q’s stomach growls out a demand for some nutrition, at which point Q is struck with a potentially perilous idea.

He will make James chicken soup.

All Q can do in the kitchen is boil water for tea and have sex on the countertop. He’s done both with James and thus exhausted his kitchen-related repertoire of skills.

But James is sick right now, and Q wants to make loud noises about how James hasn’t had anyone properly taking care of him since he was a child out on the unforgiving Scottish moors, and it all causes a lot of emotions which leave Q determined to provide James with home-cooked comfort food. The universal thing for colds and flus and such things seems to be chicken soup, and Q himself is partial to it when ill (ordering takeaway), and a variety of online blogs cheerfully reassure him it’s easy to make.

He has a degree in chemistry, he thinks determinedly, surveying the kitchen. He’ll be fine. It’s a simple question of temperatures and ingredients and proportions and time. He designs and makes his own tranquiliser pills for flying - he’ll manage a bloody chicken soup.

The kitchen is very much James’ domain, and Q lingers for a minute, looking around, a small smile on his lips. Since moving in, James has definitely transformed the pathetic barren wasteland that Q’s kitchen used to be. The cupboards and fridge are now always stocked, not just with immortally long-expiration-date products and sweets, but also with a variety of products that perish quickly, because James uses them regularly as he cooks. There are also more kitchen appliances, and who knew James Bond, the lethal 007, spends pensive moments choosing his skillets and ceramic pans wisely.

There’s so much _James_ in this room, Q thinks, a warm flutter in his chest. Everything has its own place and is arranged to James’ own preferences, with the slightest touch of lazily left-behind remnants of disarray after the latest cleanup he hadn’t finished before he left for the mission. But most of all, the kitchen feels somehow infused with James’ presence from when he cooks, mindful and caring as he stirs and reads a worn paperback while waiting for something to boil, sometimes having just arrived home and still wearing his shoulder holster. James’ cooking is truly magnificent, and Q feels quite delectably spoilt whenever James presents him with a dinner or a wonderful hot breakfast. The food is absolutely bloody gourmet, and Q always makes sure to let James know how much he loves it, and it makes those blue eyes spark as a real, bright smile crinkles his cheeks.

Naturally, they also feed on takeaway, both of them often too exhausted to do anything other than dial and then more often than not just eat straight out of the boxes like absolute heathens. And that’s good, too, because they’re together and tired and blessedly home after a spin cycle of a day at work.

But right now Q wants to give James the comfort of a home-cooked meal, so he smiles, stepping into the kitchen and glancing with fond disgust at the absolute eyesore of a fridge magnet James had gotten him from Venezuela several months ago. (James’ souvenirs, which he brings for Q from each of his missions, vary between thoughtful, genuinely beautiful, unique, carefully selected trinkets, and the most horrendous, cliché and aesthetically-scarring pieces of shit James is able to hunt on a street stand. It’s a little thing he does. It’s rather charming, actually, but Q will never say it out loud.)

The stocked shelves and cupboards emanate a sense of steady, warm safety, a reassurance, and Q tries not to ponder on how much it’s symbolic of James’ presence in his life, and also on how James only allowed himself to stock said cupboards and make a homely nest in Q’s flat, never before. Q is on a mission now, and he will not be distracted by gooey introspections.

(But it’s still a nice, overwhelmingly meaningful fact.)

Q meticulously follows the instructions from the blog he’d selected, deeming it trustworthy after much scrutiny, and the whole thing goes surprisingly well, albeit significantly longer than indicated. No matter, it’s only due to Q’s purposeful slowness, intended to ensure everything goes smoothly. His (few and highly disastrous) past experiences with attempting anything more complex than cooking pasta taught him to be careful.

He doesn’t try anything fancy, but does make the whole thing with chopped carrots for extra flavour.

Once satisfied with his achievement, he ladles some soup into a bowl with some noodles, picks out the carrots because he knows James doesn’t like them, and proudly carries his creation to the bedroom.

James is asleep, sprawled diagonally across the bed, a laptop hibernating near his head. Q nudges him gently. He sits up, frowning, hair a wild chaos, and looks miffed when he discovers he’d drooled a little bit on the pillow.

“Dinner is served,” Q announces, setting the tray down on the bed.

James stares blearily into the bowl until slowly, incrementally, he realises what he’s seeing.

“You cooked for me?”

Q chuckles warmly at the shock.

“That I did. Don’t worry, I’ve had some about two hours ago and I feel fine, so I don’t think it’s poisonous.”

James eats all of it, looking quite pleased, and it makes Q glow on the inside. And the fact that the soup seems to bring some colour back to James’ face, is a very lovely bonus.

“My compliments to the chef,” James smiles, a touch of his usual charm glinting in his eyes.

“Ta very much. As soon as you’re well again, you’re back in the kitchen, though,” Q warns, and James snorts.

“Yes, Quartermaster,” he hums, and were he not so miserably sick, that obedient tone definitely would have made Q’s trousers tighten.

* * *

James is less obedient when forced to take a bath, and after a brief negotiation Q fills the tub and gives him a sponge bath. James looks decidedly healthier once it’s done, but that also might be the smug glow of getting what he wanted. Either way, once bundled back in bed, he looks better and certainly feels better, though complains and hides it.

Still, the bath and the steady dosage of medicine yield results, and after a fairly peaceful night, James’ temperature budges to a triumphant 37.7.

Q continues working from home while James livens up and proceeds to fully embrace his Grouchy Old Man persona, complaining about joint aches, nerve pains, and the amount of effort required to simply get up to take a piss. Which he has to do quite often, because Q steadily waters him with honeyed lemonade and raspberry tea, all excellent for sore throat.

While his fever seems to be on the downward slide from now on, he’s still plagued by coughing fits that leave him groaning pathetically as he curls up in the sheets and curses in a pained whisper. After three days of coughing his throat certainly must feel peeled raw.

Q makes special rooibos tea with honey and lemon in it - it’s the same thing he made James for sore throat after that unbelievably long blow job James had given him once. He can tell James remembers, because a playful glint twinkles in his eyes when he takes his first sip.

“This is cunningly Pavlovian,” James hums after a moment. “I’m half-dead and here I am thinking I’d really like to suck you right now.”

Q smirks, unable to resist a little teasing.

“Maybe when you can actually breathe properly again.”

“Another reason to get better,” James says into his mug and carries on with the tea in small sips, and well, Q is not going to argue with those priorities. James’ blow jobs are absolutely, maddeningly amazing.

“Hear, hear.”

With his tailbone given some reprieve yesterday, he spends some more time working in bed again, while James reads, watches his documentaries, mindlessly plays games on the phone (and once on Q’s vintage GameBoy Advance, when he thinks Q is too engrossed in work to notice), and goes through tissues at an impressive pace.

Q is immersed in a slightly tricky bit of hacking to help out 003 and James is just beginning to doze off again, when Q’s phone rings.

“Moneypenny, whatever is the problem?”

“ _Hello, Q,”_ he can hear the Cheshire grin in her voice.

“Hello, Tuppence. Bear in mind that I’m currently managing half of Q-Branch from my laptop, and I’ve got a flu-riddled, grumpy Scot in my bed, so please - do try and make this brief.”

The Bond-shaped bundle of miserable blankets emits a weak growl for the sake of pretences, and Q shushes him.

“ _I just wanted to see how our favourite agent is doing. You never take time off, so everyone at the office is convinced he must be on the brink of imminent death.”_

“He got one foot out of the grave today, so I should say he’ll be fine. I’ll let him know how very much you care,” he teases, and she huffs.

“ _Be careful not to catch it. England truly would collapse if our Quartermaster were to go under.”_

“I’ll strive to stay alive.”

“ _Good. And give him my best,”_ Eve adds more softly, because bottom line she does genuinely care for James, of course.

“Moneypenny cares,” Q informs after he rings off, and James grunts.

“Much appreciated.”

The fever dropping turns out to indeed be a road to recovery, and by the time evening comes, James admits to feeling better (save for the throat). This has the side effect of him staying up half the night, having slept so much for the last two days. He deals with it by camping out in the living room and watching telly and reading, so as not to disturb Q who does need his sleep on account of being expected back in MI6 the next day.

However James must have come back to bed sometime in the night, because Q wakes up strategically spooned and somewhat unable to get out. He can just about reach out and slam the alarm clock into silence, but James’ weight is plastered heavily against his back, limbs holding him lovingly but ultimately securely. A few experimental, gentle wriggles don’t yield results, though he’s sure James is awake by now.

“James.”

Nothing. A very _determined_ nothing.

“James, let me up, I’ve got to go,” still nothing, but the arm around his waist somehow gets firmer. “I know you’re awake, you little shit, now let me up.”

“I’m sick,” James tries for sympathy, snuggling into Q’s back, and Q almost wavers. Almost. James’ fever had dropped to a satisfying 37.5 last night.

“I’d say you’re no longer terminal. James, please, if you keep me here a minute longer I might actually stay, and Mallory will not be happy with it.”

“Screw Mallory.”

“I’d much rather screw you, once you’re better. Now, let me up.”

With a displeased sigh, but also visibly perked up by the promise of screwing to occur in near future, James acquiesces, and Q reluctantly clambers out of bed. He gets dressed and packs up his computer and a few other things for work while James watches him from the bed.

“There’s still marmalade and plenty of rolls in the freezer if you want sandwiches. How are you feeling? Really, I mean.”

“Better,” James admits. “Though I do think I should take another bath. You were right, it does help.”

“Go and take it, then,” Q says distractedly, buckling his messenger bag closed.

“Hmmmmhhh...” James sprawls across the mattress, looking suddenly very feeble, or at least trying to look so. “I’m not sure I feel well enough to do it on my own...”

Q looks at him over his glasses in a way that lets James know just how very much Q is unimpressed with him.

“Go take your own bath, James, you’re well enough and I’m not your nurse.”

For a secret agent James is quite pathetically easy to read because Q can almost literally see the thought about nurse uniforms write itself on his face. In a pre-emptive strike Q shoots him a withering look, and James simply licks his lips, swallowing back whatever lewd offers he was about to spew, an impish glint bright blue in his eyes.

“I’ll be home early today,” Q promises, sincere. “I’ll try to leave around four.”

James’ eyes gleam, the playful look gone, replaced by bright warmth, a small smile on his lips.

“Thank you,” he says, and then hesitates, just a quiet, barely-there hitch of breath before: “I do mean it. Thank you, Q. For everything.”

He gazes into Q’s eyes steadily as he says it, something open and vulnerable on his face, like that quiet sigh back on the first day, when he’d laid his head in Q’s lap and allowed himself to just be ill, knowing Q will take care of him. It makes Q’s heart squeeze with a sense of happiness at being the one to give this to James, to give him the ability to be sick at home when having an actual home, and to be able to complain and whinge and do all the things that normally make being sick a bit more bearable.

He smiles and steps over to the bed to press a kiss to James’ forehead.

“Of course,” he says, and James smiles again, the blue of his eyes filled with warmth. “I love you,” he murmurs fondly into the short blonde hair, because he knows he doesn’t verbally say it too often, and because it wells up in him and he has absolutely no reason to keep it down, because why would he.

“I love you, too,” James’ smile broadens. “Now go. The sooner you leave, the sooner you’ll be back.”

(James gets completely well within two days. As soon as he does, he corners Q just as he gets home from work, and acts on that Pavlovian response to the rooibos tea. Somewhere in the back of his mind Q manages to make a mental note to always keep it in the house, and then James’ horrendously skilful mouth makes him incapable of coherent thought at all.)

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed :) I'm not as happy with it as I am with part 1, but I like it well enough. Also, it got wildly out of hand, this chapter was supposed to be like 3k long, what happened!
> 
> Anyway, always yes for James Bond being a certified drama queen.

**Author's Note:**

> Part two coming up, so stay tuned! I don't know how soon it'll be up, but I'll do my best :)
> 
> And yes, Bond probably spent half the mission developing the flu and ignoring/not noticing it.


End file.
